


Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

by thesweetpianowritingdownmylife



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Multi, Non-Consensual Touching, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-28 22:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8464960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesweetpianowritingdownmylife/pseuds/thesweetpianowritingdownmylife
Summary: Wilson Fisk wakes up on his tenth birthday two soulmarks instead of one.  The first is a children's joke about a rabbit in a snowstorm. The other is not so innocent:“Please,kill me, torture me, rape me, do whatever you want. But don’t take my Mark away.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Actually wrote this a year and a half ago and never finished it. In the end I decided to shorten it and publish it like that, which spares you a lot of angst to be quite honest.
> 
> The noncon is at the first chapter, and it's not super terrible, but I thought it'd be better with a warning.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He knew he shouldn’t have been hanging around Hell’s Kitchen at this late hour. If the girl he had been with had put out, he wouldn’t have been. Apparently he had overestimated his charm, because while she had kissed him at his door, she hadn’t invited him to come in.

 _This is what I get for pursuing a girl from Hell’s Kitchen_ , he thought. His hatred of the place had once more been justified.

He had been grabbed by some men just a block away from her apartment. They had punched him almost hard enough to make him lose consciousness, and put a black bag over his head. Now he was in a van, surrounded by other abductees, judging from the whimpering he could hear around him. The punch had stunned him, but not enough that he couldn’t tell they were driving towards the docks.

Once they were there, they were ushered out of the van and into a shipping container. Inside, there were several men who took the bags off their heads and examined them. One of the men made him strip completely, and looked him up and down appreciatively.

“Don’t take off his glasses,” suggested one of the other men in Russian, “he looks so pretty in them.”

Wesley had to bite his lip to stop himself from answering with a snarky response. His suspicions had been confirmed; it was common knowledge that the Russians were the ones controlling most of the human trafficking in this city. He spoke Russian, was proficient at it, even, and he hoped they wouldn’t notice he could understand everything they said. Perhaps they would make a mistake, and someone would unwittingly show him a weak spot he could use to escape. However, it would have to happen fast, because he guessed he would be shipped out of the country as soon as they were done with whatever they were doing in that container.

Suddenly the man who had been stripping him groped his ass intently, separating his cheeks and smirking.

“Looks tight.” He commented in a thick accent. “You a virgin, pretty boy?”

Wesley gritted his teeth as the man laughed. He wasn’t, in the strict sense of the word; he had been with many girls. But that was it, cis girls, and none of them had been imaginative enough to go anywhere near his ass. It might be corny, but he was saving that for his soul mate.

He was one of the few lucky people who knew his soul mate’s name, because it was in the first sentence that the man would say to him. “My name is Wilson Fisk and I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to you.” The Mark, as everybody else’s, had appeared on his wrist when he had turned ten. As soon as he had had access to a computer, he had looked Wilson up, but he hadn’t been able to find anything about him. Nothing popped up either whenever he checked over the years, every month like clockwork, and some other times if he was feeling down.  Wilson was the reason he didn’t date guys, no matter how much he liked them, and why he had never had anything up his ass other than his own fingers.

That would certainly change soon, though. The man groping him was getting greedy, fingers circling his hole, pressing slightly but not enough to breach. Wesley swallowed to stop the wave of nausea that crawled up his body, and sighed in relief when someone told his molester to stop “tainting the goods.” Nevertheless, his relief was short lived.

One of the girls started screaming. Wesley looked at her and found out, horrified, that they were pressing a red-hot iron against her wrist. The smell of burning flesh and the terrified yells of all the captives filled the room. Wesley couldn’t breathe. They were erasing their Marks. He had heard rumors about this practice, about how men preferred markless sex workers, or people with fake Marks that they had chosen in order to live the fantasy of meeting their soul mate. Wesley knew the words on his wrist by heart and he wouldn’t forget them in a million years, but he couldn’t allow them to literally burn Wilson out of his flesh. The mere thought was revolting.

Clutching his arm to his chest, and forgetting everything about his plans of making a subtle escape when he noticed a weakness, he tried to recoil, tried to get away, but two strong men held him and started dragging him kicking and screaming towards the one with the iron stick. Another man looked at his wrist to read the messaged inked there as if out of curiosity with an amused smirk that quickly fell when he actually read the words.

“Stop.” The man said in Russian. “Don’t do anything to this one. Give him his clothes back and wait.”

Wesley sobbed in relief and stopped struggling as they pushed him back. He put his clothes back on shakily, trying to ignore the cries of the ones who weren’t as lucky as him. The man who had saved him was discussing something with another one, and they both kept looking at him. Wesley was too high on adrenaline to question anything about it; he still had his Mark, and that was all that mattered. He couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying, and he didn’t resist when they lead him into the car, away from all those unfortunate markless people, and drove him to a nicer part of the city. By the time they arrived to their destination, he was still trembling, and relief had left his body to give way to a kind of fearful determination. He caressed the words on his wrist, again and again, in an attempt to calm himself down. They took him to the sixth floor of a building and into one of the apartments, where a tall, broad man seemed to be waiting for them. He stood as the Russians dropped Wesley at his feet and left the room.

Wesley looked up at him, sizing him up. He was staring at him with something akin to wonder, with a little doubt mixed in. Wesley wondered who he was, why had they taken him there. He was afraid, but now he had sorted out his priorities, and he knew what he needed to ask.

“Please,” Wesley begged, his voice firm even though he was shaking, “kill me, torture me, rape me, do whatever you want. But don’t take my Mark away.”

The man reacted as if he had been slapped; he staggered back, wide-eyed, and then walked up to Wesley, who flinched. The man stopped still, and unbuttoned his right sleeve to show him the words he had just said in Wesley’s neat handwriting.

“My name is Wilson Fisk,” the man said, a tentative smile lighting up his face, “and I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson Fisk couldn’t have been more excited about his tenth birthday. Everyone looked forward to the day when their Mark would appear, but Wilson had really gone overboard. The night before, he had left on his bedside table a big notebook he had been carrying around since he had learned how to write. In it were the names of every person he had met since then and the first words that they had said to him. It had made him the target of many jokes at school, but he didn’t care; he was fully prepared to receive his Mark, and wouldn’t chance having met them already and not remembering their first words. During all these years, he had also tried to come up with something unique every time he met someone, so that it would stand out, so that if those words came up on their skin, they would remember who had said them. He would have hated that his soul mate had a Mark that said “Hi” or “Nice to meet you” or any other bland pleasantry, and he hoped that his soulmate had had the same idea. He couldn’t even imagine how nerve-wracking it would be, to have something so simple, so common. How could anyone find their soulmate with a Mark like that? Wilson shuddered just to imagine it. He brushed his notebook, sent a quick prayer that his soul mate would be his music teacher, and closed his eyes.

When he woke up, it took him a moment to remember, but when he did, he sat up on the bed like a bullet and started hyperventilating. He checked his left wrist, and there it was, a string of tiny words in an elegant handwriting; he was so excited that he couldn’t read them. And the line was longer that he had expected it to be. He rolled his sleeve up, but it wasn’t enough, so he decided to take off his shirt instead. As he did he glanced to his other wrist accidentally, and what he saw gave him pause. There was _another_ Mark, a different one. The handwriting was neat, but it had less curves, and the letters were bigger; it had definitely been written by a different person. Before he could process the fact that he had two Marks and actually read them, his parents came in through the door.

“Happy birthday!” His mother exclaimed. She was holding a cake and had a big smile on her face.

“Well?” His father inquired, with far less enthusiasm. “What does the Mark say?” He asked without real interest, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Wilson looked at them, confusion plain in his features, and held up both of his wrists.

“What is it?” His father asked, annoyed. He walked up to Wilson’s bed and examined the words on his son’s wrists. “Why do you have two?”

“I don’t know.” Wilson answered honestly. No book he had ever read on soulmates –and he had read a lot of them– had warned him about this.

“I cannot believe this.” His father was fuming. “You’re such a weirdo. And now you have two soulmates? What are you, a slut?”

“Bill!” His mother cried, scandalized. “How can you say that to him?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” He laughed. “You’re a freak. There’s the proof. I knew you were a greedy asshole, but boy, I hadn’t realized how much.” He left the room, slamming the door shut, and stomped over to the liquor cabinet.

Wilson was crying. It was all wrong. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of his life. But it had been taken away from him almost as soon as it had started. He looked down at the Marks, trying not to sob, when suddenly he felt his mother’s arms around him.

“He’s wrong.” She said resolutely. “He has no idea of how special you are.”

“But imma freak!” Wilson cried. “It’s true! None of my books…”

“We’ll get new books.” She stated. “Better ones. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the library and ask for more books about soulmates, and we’ll find other people like you.” He petted his hair and smiled down at him reassuringly, but he still wasn’t convinced.

“You… you don’t think I’m greedy?” He asked shakily.

“No. I just think you have a lot of love to give.”            

Wilson finally smiled, and together they read the messages out loud. The long one on the left forearm said “There's an old children's joke. You  _hold up_  a white  _piece of paper and ask_ , what's this? A  _rabbit in a snowstorm. Are you interested? People always ask me why do we charge so much to what amounts to gradations of white. I tell them it’s not about the artist’s name or the skill required. Not even about the art itself. All that matters is how does it make you feel.”_

_“Well, this one likes art!” His mother announced proudly. “Something to keep in mind.”_

_The other one was nowhere near so cheerful. It said_ “Please, kill me, torture me, rape me, do whatever you want. But don’t take my Mark away.” For a moment, they were both silent. Wilson was terrified. How would he ever be in a situation in which someone would be forced to say these words to him? Why would he want to take someone’s Mark away? Why would he want to kill anyone? Or rape them, for that matter.  He would surely become a monster in the future. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t, because he didn’t feel he had the right to do it; he would be despicable, and he wasn’t worth his own tears.

As soon as his mother recovered from the shock and saw her son’s grim expression, she started working around those terrible words. “Maybe they mistook you for somebody else.” She suggests. “Maybe they are rehearsing a play, or it’s a line from a movie that you’ll watch. Can you imagine dating an actor?” Her cheery question falls flat. “Or… Maybe it’s something you’ll overhear in the street, and then you will go and save them.” She hugged him tighter. “But you have to promise to be careful, ok? Don’t get hurt, or you won’t be together for long.” She went on, putting a piece of zuppa in front of him to ease the way, until he was assured that things must not be that bad, after all, and Wilson was able to smile again.

All these sweet excuses came tumbling down the day he killed his father. With blood all over his face and the hammer heavy in his right hand, he felt the words of his soulmate burn into his skin like a prophecy. He would become a monster, and the process had just started.


	3. Chapter 3

“Wilson?” Wesley asked in a high-pitched voice. He looked at the other man in the eye for the first time.

“Are you ok?” Fisk cupped his jaw delicately. “Did they hurt you?”

Wesley couldn’t answer. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and he was looking at _Wilson_ , the man he had been waiting to meet since he was ten. He grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him close, breathing him in, checking he was real. Fisk put his arms around him and held him tight for a minute.

“Please, tell me you’re not hurt.” Fisk pleaded again.

The other man nodded. “I’m fine. Mostly. I’m not in pain,” he quickly explained when Fisk tensed up, “but I’m a bit shaken.”

“Of course.” He kissed his hair and pulled away. Wesley let him go reluctantly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure… no one lays a finger on you. Ever again.”

Wesley nodded. He knew —had known for years—that his soulmate would protect him, come hell or high water. He had given some thought to what could his Mark mean, what kind of situation would warrant it. His imagination hadn’t gone as far as ‘being captured by a Russian sex-trafficking mafia and narrowly escaping having his Mark erased and being sold to the highest bidder’, but he knew it wouldn’t be exactly pleasant. He was still shivering from the experience, though, so he wrapped his arms around himself to will his body to stop trembling.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Fisk said sincerely, with such regret in his voice that Wesley wanted to hug him again. “I’ll call my driver and you’ll be home in no time.”

“What?” Wesley cried. “No.”

“You said you weren’t hurt. I thought you didn’t need a hospital.”

“I don’t want to leave.” He stated, mildly exasperated that he had to. “Why would I?”

“I never thought you’d be much interested in staying.” Fisk confessed with a pained expression. “After that sentence…” He trailed off, not meeting his eyes.

Wesley felt his soulmate’s pain as his own, and couldn’t help but to reach out to him. He leaned in slowly, giving the other man plenty of warning if he wanted to pull away, and kissed him —like he had wanted to do from the minute he heard the words on his skin. Fisk kissed him back, embracing him again with care, almost reverently. When they separated, Wesley cupped Fisk’s face in his hands.

“You expected me to reject you. To be scared of you.” It wasn’t a question, but Fisk nodded anyway. “I understand that you’ve dealt with that fear all your life. But you saved me tonight, being yours saved me.” He kissed him again, lightly. “Yes, I was afraid tonight, but it stopped the moment you spoke. I’ve never felt safer than when I heard you. So I’m going to stay with you, unless you don’t want me to.”

Fisk shook his head, but he seemed hesitant. “Is there… Do you have someone waiting at home?”

“No. Nor anywhere else.” He clarified. He would send the girl with whom he had been on a date a big bouquet of flowers to thank her for helping him meeting his soulmate, but he obviously wouldn’t call her again, because he had Wilson now. And also, because she had propitiated his abduction.

Fisk sighed in relief. “I’m forty years old.”

Wesley frowned. “I couldn’t care less about the age difference.”

“I know. But I thought you might be my age. Was it really such a stretch? Assuming you’d have someone by now?”

“Do you?” Wesley asked in a tiny voice. “Have someone, I mean.”

He shook his head. “It didn’t feel right. But… I do have…” he sighed. “It’s difficult to explain.” He rolled up his other sleeve, showing the wall of text inked there in calligraphy completely different from Wesley’s. A woman’s, if he were to guess.

“Oh.” He blinked twice, trying to dispel a small twinge of pain. _It does not matter._ “I was aware this could happen, but it’s incredibly rare.” _He’s still mine_. “I don’t have any more Marks, so sadly they won’t be my soulmate as well.” He smiled. “I don’t mind sharing. Just… don’t send me home.”

“I won’t.” He promised, and he kissed him again. “Although you should tell me your name at some point.”

The other man laughed. “Yes, I supposed that would be appropriate. My name is James Wesley.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fisk was amazed that Wesley had taken everything in stride. It may have helped that the group of Russians who had captured him had appeared death the morning after their meeting. Wesley had loose morals, and Fisk was the embodiment of ‘the end justifies the means.’

They didn’t tell anyone that they were soulmates, because that would put Wesley in an incredibly vulnerable position. Any half-hearted suggestions of putting some distance between them were dismissed straight away; no matter how much they tried to avoid it, they rarely passed more than a week away from each other, and then only because their business required long trips to Japan and China every now and then. They got apartments in the same building, and they alternated living at both places so they would look used if anyone ever came snooping around.

Of course, some of Fisk’s underlings noticed the difference. Their boss was kinder, more lenient, and he had a new, baby-faced assistant, but most of them didn’t connect the dots. The ones who did took good care to keep their mouths shut; nobody wanted to try Fisk’s temper nor Wesley’s patience.

The main problem was, of course, that Wesley had Fisk’s name written in his forearm. He covered it up with gloves and armbands, even under the long sleeves, and water-resistant make-up. Once he had been kidnapped —perks of being Fisk’s right-hand man— by a petty Italian drug lord who had found out, which meant Fisk was forced to execute every last one of his goons to ensure that the secret would be well-kept. Wesley protested that Fisk would have killed them all anyway, and Fisk had smiled and kissed him on the nose.

“I could get it removed.” Wesley had nonchalantly suggested after the experience. “Ideally not with a hot iron, but there are some good options in laser treatments nowadays.” He could do it. It would protect both of them, it was for the best. “It would spread the word that I’ve lost my soulmate, and that would help dispel any rumors of our involvement as well.”

Fisk looked up from the documents he was revising, expecting to see an amused expression. He didn’t consider the suggestion anything other than a joke —and one in poor taste at that— until he saw Wesley’s expression, and the way he had inadvertently brought his hand over his hidden Mark, hovering but not quite touching it.

Fisk had rolled up his sleeve and looked pointedly at him until Wesley admitted that erasing his Mark was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

They weren’t actively looking for her, the missing piece in their puzzle. They were much too busy building up Wilson’s reputation, making friends to get influence, getting in bed with despicable people to gather resources. Building a criminal empire wasn’t the work of one night.

And most of all, they were happy. Finding her was secondary, even though they spent many a night wondering what she would be like, how she would take the fact that Wilson was not exclusively hers, how deep her interest in art ran. They exchanged promises to stick together, even if she didn’t like it.

\---

Fifteen years after Fisk met Wesley, he met her.

He had wandered towards the big white painting on instinct. He looked at it, wondering if it was the one, if this is where he was supposed to be at that moment, and was so nervous that he didn’t hear the clicking of heels approaching until the woman stopped next to him and started talking.

“There's an old children's joke.”

Fisk tensed instantly. It was her. She was there, finally. Forty five years after that long Mark appeared on his arm, he was finally hearing its words spoken.

“You  _hold up_  a white  _piece of paper and ask_ , what's this? A  _rabbit in a snowstorm.”_

_He didn’t laugh. He thought the joke_ _was_ _funny, even after all this time, but he was too caught up in the sound of her voice. It_ _was_ _the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, barring, perhaps, Wesley’s. She also had an accent, but it was subtle, and Fisk couldn’t fully identify it._

_“Are you interested?”_

_Fisk nodded_ _in a daze_ _, but didn’t dare look at her, not yet. She wasn’t finished, and he didn’t want to interrupt her._

_“People always ask me why do we charge so much to what amounts to gradations of white. I tell them it’s not about the artist’s name or the skill required. Not even about the art itself. All that matters is how does it make you feel.”_

How did it make Fisk feel? He had wandered around the world for years before finding Wesley, dreading the day he would meet him, because he was sure he would turn Fisk away. He had checked museums tirelessly back then, almost obsessively, looking for white, gradations of white, paintings with great amounts of white in them. He used to think she would be the only one who would want him, and he despaired when he couldn’t find her. So he turned to look her in the eye — _God, she’s so beautiful_ —and answered with the truth.

“It made me feel alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I will be rescuing more Fiskley fics from my drafts, including another soulmate au with a rather different approach.   
> If you liked it, like, comment, ya know... ^^ V A L I D A T E M Y I N S E C U R E A S S ^^


End file.
